Chapter 44
STILWELL DUG DEEPER and found a military site that revealed that the sniper round necklace was called a Hog’s Tooth because HOG was an acronym for hunter of gunmen.
This was derived from a military superstition that held that every soldier had a bullet out there with his or her name on it, and it was just a matter of time before that bullet was fired.
But if a Marine sniper took out an enemy sniper and then took a round from the dead shooter’s gun, he had retrieved the bullet with his name on it.
If he wore it on a shoestring around his neck, he would be invincible. He couldn’t be killed.
Stilwell had a better understanding of why Simon and Trestle had come back to the island for measurements. They were looking for ballistic evidence that might tie Lambert’s past as a sniper to the ambush at the airstrip.
Stilwell took out his phone and called his friend Monty West, an investigator with the medical examiner’s office.
They had worked multiple cases together when Stilwell was in the sheriff’s homicide unit.
They also shared a lifelong allegiance to the Los Angeles Dodgers, the reigning World Series champions.
They had once even journeyed to Arizona together to attend the Dodgers spring-training games.
As usual, West answered the call with a baseball reference, which Stilwell responded to in kind.
“I miss Clayton Kershaw already.”
“Well, I still miss Vin Scully.”
“What’s up, Stil?”
“I want to ask you about the Alton Quigley autopsy.”
“Which one is—oh, that’s the deputy, right? Not my case.”
“Then what did you hear about it?”
“Not much to it. Head shot. Large-caliber projectile.”
“The projectile is what I’m interested in.”
“I heard it went to metallurgy, but I don’t know if they got anything back yet.”
Stilwell was silent for a moment. He had heard nothing about metallurgic evidence or analysis from Simon but he had to act like he was in the loop.
“Can you punch it up on your screen and see if we’re still waiting on the report?” he asked.
“I could but I’m not at my computer,” West said. “I’m in the field making a pickup.”
“That’s cool. Can you check when you get back?”
“I’ll call you.”
West disconnected.
Stilwell put the phone down and thought about what he had seen that night at the airstrip.
Coming back up the hill after chasing Kalas, he had been focused on Ramirez because she was still alive and he had to stop her from bleeding out.
He had made a quick visual check on Quigley and knew right away that he was beyond help.
The entire back of his head was gone. This meant that the projectile that hit him likely tumbled or shattered on impact, spreading the wound track and shredding his brain as it plowed through and then exited from the back of his skull.
That the ME had asked for a metallurgy analysis suggested to Stilwell that the bullet had shattered and part of it had been recovered during autopsy.
Stilwell picked up his cell again and called Ernie Simon, but he didn’t answer.
Stilwell checked his call history and saw the burner number Simon had previously used.
He called that number, and it also went to voicemail.
He was about to leave a message when he was interrupted by an incoming call.
He checked the screen and saw that it was Captain Corum, probably calling about the press conference.
He sent the call to voicemail and left a message for Simon:
“Ernie, I know about the bullet fragment. Call me back.”
Stilwell thought he had phrased the message in a way that would make Simon return the call.
Stilwell sat back and wondered if he was going down a rabbit hole.
The ME request for a metallurgic analysis was an effort to identify the type and manufacturer of the round that killed Quigley.
That was good, thorough work, but what would it achieve?
Identifying the manufacturer would be useful only if they could prove that a suspect had bought or possessed matching ammunition. The question was, could they?
Stilwell didn’t know the answer, but Ernie Simon probably did, and maybe that was why he hadn’t picked up either of Stilwell’s calls.
There was a single knock on the door and Mercy stuck her head in.
“Stil, Captain Corum just called me,” she said. “He wants you to call him back ASAP.”
“Did you tell him I was here?” Stilwell asked.
“Uh, yes. But he knew from the cameras, I guess. Was that wrong?”
“No, it’s all right. How did he sound?”
“Sort of mad.”
“Okay, I’ll call him. You can shut the door.”
Stilwell braced himself and made the call. As expected, Corum came in hot, not bothering with any salutation.
“Why am I hearing about this press conference from the sheriff’s adjutant?” he said. “Why am I being asked to brief the sheriff on something I haven’t been briefed on myself?”
“Sorry, Captain,” Stilwell said. “I’m writing up the report now. I was going to get it to you before there was a press conference, but it’s Friday and things are getting busy out here. A lot of weekenders landing.”
“I don’t have time to wait for you to write a report. Tell me right now what’s going on and what I need to tell the sheriff so that he doesn’t come off as a complete ass in front of the cameras.”
It’s always about the cameras, Stilwell thought. He spent the next ten minutes giving Corum a short summary of what had occurred in the past twenty-four hours on the Middleton and missing-hikers case. He ended it with a piece of information he knew Corum would like.
“The good news is he killed himself at Metropolitan,” he said. “The city’s jail, not ours. If anybody goes Epstein on this, LAPD has to deal with it, not us.”
“Thank God for that,” Corum said.
“Is that enough for the sheriff?” Stilwell asked.
“We’ll see. You know, Stil, it looks like you did good work here, and the LAPD is going to give us a piece of the credit pie, but it still bothers me that I wasn’t in the loop on this thing till it was all over but the shouting.
You have a big problem with keeping me informed, and all I can tell you is that it’s wearing thin. It’s really wearing thin.”
“All I can say, Cap, is that I will do better.”
“You’d better do better. I have to go brief the sheriff now, but we need to talk about Kalas and how the fuck you let him escape.”
“I didn’t let him escape, Captain. He—”
“I don’t have time for this now. But you’re going to need me on your side when the shit hits the fan. Start acting like you want that.”
He disconnected before Stilwell could respond. He was still holding the phone to his ear when Monty West called back.
“Whaddya got?”
“Jones said they haven’t typed up a report yet.”
“Who’s Jones?”
“Hunter Jones. Our metal man. He’s a subcontractor. He’s writing the report now. You want to wait for that report or hear what he told me? I took notes.”
“Go ahead. You tell me.”
“Okay, first of all, it was a frangible projectile, basically built to disintegrate on impact. As it did in this case. But a small fragment was recovered from a piece of the skull collected at the scene. The fragment was embedded in the interior lining of the occipital bone. The report will have photos of all this.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Let’s see… what else? I can barely read my own writing.
Okay, it was an MIP round. That means metal-impregnated polymer.
That’s a polymer matrix mixed with metal particles—in this case, copper.
The composition of the recovered fragment is consistent with MIP projectiles manufactured by a company called MIPCO Ammo. That’s what I’ve got.”
Stilwell was silent as he finished taking his own notes.
“Okay, this is good,” he said. “I appreciate it. Let’s go to a game soon.”
“Anytime you want to get off that rock out there,” West said, “I’m here.”
Stilwell disconnected and looked down at his notes, then typed MIPCO Ammo into his search engine and clicked on the company’s website.
There were several photos on the home page of men wearing military uniforms and brandishing assault rifles, presumably engaged in combat.
Quotes from satisfied MIPCO customers recommended the polymer ammunition.
The site listed the many virtues of the product, which was described as environmentally friendly because each round was lead-free.
The MIP round was deemed to be safer than traditional ammunition because the disintegration of the projectile upon impact reduced ricochets and overpenetration, which occurred when jacketed lead ammunition passed cleanly through a target and went on to cause unintended damage.
What was not extolled on the site was that the MIP ammunition was perfect for a sniper. It left widespread trauma that could make up for off-center impacts, and the reduced overpenetration and ricochets cut down on collateral damage.
The home page claimed that the ammunition could not be bought in a gun store anywhere in the world.
It was available for purchase only through the website.
Stilwell saw that the company was based in Temecula, which was in Riverside County, not far from where Gavin Lambert had grown up.
This led Stilwell to go to the Who We Are page on the site to check out the owners and staff.
He didn’t see Lambert’s name and didn’t recognize any of the people listed, but he knew that many law enforcement officers were licensed gun dealers or had other side gigs in the gun trade.
Considering Lambert’s résumé, it would not be surprising for him to have a relationship with an ammunition manufacturer.
Stilwell realized that he was no longer behind Simon and Trestle on the case.
He had moved ahead of them because they were still waiting on the metallurgy report.
They would soon catch up, but Stilwell couldn’t wait.
He wanted to press forward. The logical next move would be to serve MIPCO with a warrant for any records of purchases by Lambert or business involvement with him, but Stilwell couldn’t do that.
It wasn’t his case, and all warrants had to be approved by Corum, who would no doubt shut Stilwell down before he even finished making the request.
Stilwell picked up the phone and called the number listed at the bottom of the MIPCO home page for general inquiries. He then switched back to the Who We Are page and looked at the photo of Walter Bessemer, the founder and president of the company.
A female voice answered the call.
“MIPCO, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Walter.”
“Who can I say is calling?”
“Gavin Lambert.”
“Hold, please.”
Twenty seconds went by and the call was transferred. It rang once and was picked up by a man who was clearly familiar with the person he thought was calling.
“Hey, Chopper, what’s going on?”
Stilwell said nothing. He just listened.
“Gavin, you there?”
Stilwell disconnected. He went to his screen and clicked on Walter Bessemer’s name. The bio it led to was short, but what was there was enough. Bessemer had been a Marine, had fought in Iraq, and won a Bronze Star for heroic action during the battle for Fallujah.
It was clear that the two men were well acquainted. The etymology of the nickname was easy for Stilwell to trace: Lambert becomes Lamb Chop. Lamb Chop becomes Chopper. No doubt Lambert and Bessemer were foxhole buddies.
Stilwell felt that he was now another step ahead of Simon and Trestle. And he knew that being out front was a lonely place to be.